


Last Night

by bionically



Series: Love Fest 2020 [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Comedy, Comedy of Errors, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Humorous Mystery, Mystery, Mystery Pairing - Freeform, One Night Stand, Romantic Comedy, allusions to drinking, allusions to force, it being Hermione, uptight Hermione, whodunit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22848154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Hermione's done something really, uncharacteristically stupid. She doesn't even know who that something is.One-night stand mystery pairing. Figure it out before Hermione does! (Hint: It's not hard. Or maybe it was.)#TeamAphrodite #lf2020
Relationships: Hermione Granger/mystery
Series: Love Fest 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643674
Comments: 15
Kudos: 97
Collections: Love Fest 2020





	Last Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InDreams/gifts), [In_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Dreams/gifts).



> Beta'd by the fantastic duo, disenchantedglow and kahcicamera

_Wake up in the morning_   
_With the sunlight in my eyes,_   
_No, my head don't feel so bright,_   
_What the hell happened last night?_   
_Yeah, last night think we were dancing,_   
_Singing all our favorite songs._   
_Think I might have kissed someone._   
_And if tomorrow never comes_   
_We had last night._

-The Vamps, _Last Night_

* * *

When Hermione woke up, it was with the sinking feeling that she had done something really uncharacteristically stupid the night before.

That feeling intensified when she glanced around to find that she wasn't in her own room. It escalated further when she saw, with a quick glance underneath the covers, that she was completely naked.

Hermione Granger did not, in the normal scheme of affairs in her tidy, ordered life, indulge in one-night stands.

Her eyes, blurry with grit and the vestiges of unremoved makeup, quickly skipped across the room. There were her high heels thrown willy-nilly on the ground, one on its side by the window and the other one… she couldn't see where the other one was. She couldn’t even locate where her clothes were.

The events of the night before were nothing but a hazy blur, and she laid the blame squarely for that at Ginny's feet. Drinking games with a group of professional Quidditch players, my arse. They all had the metabolism of a hummingbird, flying loop-de-loops in the air for _hours_ on end. Yesterday she faintly recalled a conversation about a recent game that had gone on for _twenty hours_ without stopping. Hermione had wanted to ask if they snacked on jelly beans in the meantime, but Ginny had pushed a drink into her hand. It seemed churlish to readily reject the shot to say, _sorry, I only drink martinis._ Later she regretted not saying that, because that round had followed another round, and then another, and then…

What were the chances she was in here with the entire group of Harpies? A hotel room sleepover? Could that crumpled white shirt lying on the ground be hers? She thought she had worn a sweater. Maybe it belonged to Ginny’s teammate. Had they all stripped down to talk about their life and other accompanying miseries?

There didn’t seem to be enough dropped clothing to back that theory up. _Or any of her clothes at all_ , for that matter.

In fact, even her wand was not lying on the bedside table where she usually put it when she went to sleep.

Well, that was understandable. There was no bedside table in this place. There was nothing in this great room except towering windows and a soft-looking fur rug surrounding the giant monstrosity of a bed. No Floo in sight either. It was, in short, the strangest looking bedroom she had ever seen in her life, with absolutely no sign of personality anywhere. There weren't even curtains on the windows.

Right. She had avoided the sight long enough.

Hermione, shoulders squared as though preparing to go into battle, forced herself to look at the bed next to her for the first time. Every part of her fought to look away, but that rigid spine of valour and responsibility demanded she own up to her own mistakes.

Even if she wanted to duck under the covers and hide from reality.

She saw a shoulder and half of a back that was so muscular and large that the bottom of her stomach dropped. No, that did not belong to a woman, and the fact it was so bare—Hermione was almost afraid to find out the extent of the nudity. She was almost glad that whoever the bare upper body belonged to, his head was currently buried under his pillow. There was an arm flung out over the pillow on his head, and a ring adorned one of his fingers… Hermione leaned over for a closer look. 

It looked familiar, but then these family signet rings all looked similar to her, with either a coat of arms or the family symbol and motto. She had never deemed it necessary to memorise them all in case one day she would be called on to identify someone by it, but now that seemed like a distressing lack of foresight.

Perhaps she could just peer under one corner of the pillow. Hermione pulled the sheet loose from the rest of the bedding and wrapped it around her torso under her arms, carefully so as not to shift the bed in any way. She would just lean over and gently pluck the pillowcase with her fingertips and very slowly, _gingerly_ lift it just the tiniest bit to peek under it to see...

What was she doing?

Hermione’s heart was pounding at the thought of confrontation. At seeing whoever it was while she wore not a stitch of clothing. No, no, no, she didn’t have to see who it was, not right this minute. _Maybe not ever._

It didn't even matter who it was, actually. She needed to leave here at once. Preferably clothed. Hopefully the man, whoever he was, would similarly forget who she was, and that would be that. Mutual memory loss. That would be for the best. She’d drop by St Mungo’s later for a full checkup. It would be fine.

The fates seemed then to shine down the way for her. She suddenly caught sight of her wand, tossed on the ground on the opposite side of the bed. Her hand almost shook with relief when she saw it. Magic was the best friend of those who engaged in one-night stands. 

Hermione gingerly set her feet down on the plush carpet, her toes automatically curling into the softness. Images started to flash through her brain, but she firmly shook then off. She tucked the sheet securely around her torso as though she were girding her loins for battle. Now was the time for escape, not reminiscence.

She thanked the heavens that whoever _he_ was, he was a miraculously deep sleeper. There was no sound from him as she dragged the sheet over to where her wand lay, picked it up, and whispered an incantation. Wherever her clothes were, they weren’t there. Nothing flew into her grasp. A stiletto nearly stabbed her eye out as her shoe zipped in from the doorway before dropping loudly at her feet. 

Hermione winced at the sound before hurriedly bending to grab her high heels in one hand. Using the other hand to hold the sheet more securely around her naughty bits, she tip-toed speedily out of the room as though she were escaping from the slavering hounds of hell.

* * *

The human body was an amazing organism.

Hermione had needed to escape, and so her body had stepped up to the challenge. She had been out of the place in less than five minutes, including the full minute she had debated whether to look to see who her mistake was; chewing her lip and looking at the incredibly large, muscled back half covered in the tangled sheets on the equally enormous bed.

After she returned home and collapsed onto her couch in relief, her body decided to remind her that, in addition to her anonymous debauchery, she had also had more than her usual amount of drinksies.

Her bladder was the fullest it had ever been, and she drank almost a gallon of water to ease the tightness of her dry throat. In between bathroom trips and trying to hide from herself under her pillow, it wasn't until mid-morning that she realised she was not only neglecting all her weekend chores, but she'd also neglected one thing even more important:

_She hadn't Obliviated the man._

Hermione wanted to kick herself. In the normal scheme of things, random Obliviation was frowned upon, but Hermione's spells didn't even leave a trace. She had been praised on it before and was almost asked to pursue Obliviation as a career. Ron had looked aghast at that; he’d been imagining all sorts of things she'd make him forget, probably. 

Now _she_ was the one who had forgotten.

Hermione smacked herself on the forehead with her palm, nearly worsening her dehydration headache. She groaned loud enough to echo through her room before she tried a few breathing exercises to restore her calm. Was it too much to hope that there wouldn’t be any naughty pictures of her ill-fated night? 

She decided to call on Ginny.

* * *

"Ginny can't come to the Floo, Hermione," Luna said. "She's feeling sickly."

"I'm still pissed as a kite!" wailed the object of their conversation somewhere behind Luna's blonde head.

"I've got Sober-Up!" Hermione shouted back and then winced in apology as Luna withdrew from the force of her volume. "Sorry."

When Luna beckoned her forward, Hermione crawled through the fireplace, clutching the potion bottle in one hand. She lurched upright once inside the living room and brushed the soot from her head. 

"Why would you have that potion on hand?" Ginny called across the room to her from where she was lying down full-length on the couch, the back of a hand to her brow as though she were an actress enacting a dramatic death scene. 

Hermione had in fact stumbled on the case of Sober-Up inside the Floo just as she had gotten down on her knees to call Ginny. “I had to buy a six-pack of it last year when I was dealing with the infringement issue, remember? I thought I had given them all away, but I found a box of it in my Floo this morning. My office must have sent another supply.” It was yet another sign that the fates were trying to help her avoid the consequences of the night before. Hermione had tossed back one entire bottle before crawling here through the Floo Network.

Ginny groaned at her explanation, lifting only her hand marginally to squint at Hermione. "Never mind, I don't care. Just give it to me."

Hermione padded around an ottoman to make her way to Ginny. She sat down gingerly at the very edge of the seat in accompaniment to Ginny’s dramatic moans and handed the bottle to Ginny, making sure to wrap the latter’s fingers securely around the glass.

It took around five sips before Ginny looked more human. “Now I remember. It was that legal stuff with Pepper-Up, right? I always forget they aren’t the same company.” Ginny took five more small sips before capping the bottle and laying her head back down on the armrest, holding a cushion over her middle like she was getting ready to be sent off on a funeral pyre. Her eyes were closed. “I wish I had gotten that endorsement contract. They’d have to send it to me by the cartload.”

“Isn’t Sober-Up represented by Cormac McLaggen?” Luna sat down on the rug across from Hermione. 

Hermione couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at the name. “Yes, and he’s a complete prat about it. It’s his family’s company, so I’ve had the dubious pleasure of having to discuss the case with him.”

“Say whatever you want about him,” Ginny said, waving the hand not covering her eyes in the air, “but he’s a bloody good Quidditch player. They scored so many points in the first quarter that I had to delay catching the Snitch so that my team could catch up. He was unbearable about it later.”

“Hmm,” Luna said thoughtfully. “He’s actually always been rather nice to me. I think he just doesn’t know how to relate to people. It’s a common fallacy that talking about your best attributes is the right way to make friends.”

Hermione fell silent, nervously bouncing her leg up and down as she eyed Luna on the rug next to them. Now that Ginny had brought up last night, Hermione was itching to start asking her pertinent questions, but Luna’s presence made her hesitate. It wasn’t that she had anything against Luna; it was just that she was so dreamy and vague that she seemed above the carnal cares of the world, like a pure ball of bright sunlight. Hermione thought she’d rather feel like she were soiling a baby unicorn if she brought up _sex_ in front of Luna.

“I saw you talking to Oliver Wood last night, Hermione,” said Ginny in a singsong way. She was somehow able to suffer from a hangover and also tease Hermione at the same time. She hadn’t even sat up.

“Oh, him,” Hermione said, her finger restlessly tapping against her chin as she tried to think of a way to speed up this part of the conversation and onto more relevant subject matters. “We talked about his playbook and how building essential habits was the defining characteristic of a good Quidditch player.”

Ginny opened one eye to stare blearily at Hermione. “You were talking to Oliver Wood—who I’d climb like a tree—and you proceeded to discuss plays and habits? Who are you, Hermione Granger?”

“Maybe that’s the subject that would endear her to Oliver Wood the most,” Luna said.

“Well, I’m not interested in Oliver Wood,” Hermione said, cutting off the girls’ ill-advised matchmaking efforts. In fact, she didn’t need any more matchmaking _at all_ until this current fiasco was taken care of. “Who was there last night, do you recall? Er, besides our former Housemates. Which teams? Just the Harpies and the—er—”

“Puddlemere,” Ginny and Luna answered at the same time.

Hermione frowned at Luna. “You follow Quidditch?”

Luna smiled beatifically at her. “You forgot that I was a Quidditch commentator at Hogwarts.”

“Oh. Right.” Hermione tapped her wand in a nervous tattoo on the surface of the coffee table. “Er, so, how many players in Puddlemere are male?”

When Ginny removed the hand over her eyes to look at Hermione with raised eyebrows, Hermione couldn’t help the flush rising to her cheeks. She shrugged. “No reason. Just—wanted to know for, er, gender equality purposes. I mean, they say that gender doesn’t matter in Quidditch, but I thought it’d be an interesting study to perform. Since the Harpies are completely comprised of females. And—technically men have a larger arm span.” Hermione was babbling, but once she started spinning her convoluted explanation, she found that it did, in fact, make an interesting area of study. “Therefore, men could lunge further and catch more balls—”

“Quaffles.”

“—right, quaffles—coming their way. Especially the goal person—"

"Keeper."

"—and the other people could hit the bludgers harder and further, and honestly, I think the way to even up the sport is by regulating the weight-height distribution of the team members.” Hermione finished talking and took a deep breath. 

“That’s interesting, Hermione,” Luna said in her sweet, high voice. “As a matter of fact, I agree with you. I’d also include the weight of the brooms in a study as well. In all, it’s not a very regulated sport.”

Ginny’s snort cut the conversation off as she sat up. She shifted, and Hermione ducked her head so that Ginny could swing her legs over her. “Alright, non-Quidditch players. Now I’m famished. Let’s continue this—or not—over breakfast.”

* * *

Later, Hermione could have kicked herself for babbling so much to get herself out of a sticky, compromising situation and then losing complete control of the direction of the conversation. 

That was fine, however. She’d track down Ron and get all the details of who had been at the mixer last night. He wouldn’t suspect a thing. He never did.

She managed to find him ambling along Grimmauld Place Road and hauled him into an alley while he wasn't looking.

"Whoa!" Ron said in alarm before he saw who it was. Then, "Easy on the sandwich!"

Once in the alley, Hermione proceeded to grill him. “Who else was there last night? Were there any backup players?”

“You mean, the second string?” Ron asked, taking a huge bite of a large croissant sandwich. 

Hermione watched with a frown as half of it disappeared into Ron’s mouth. “Right, whatever.”

“Of course they were there, ‘Mione,” Ron said through the muffled sound of chewing. Another bite, and the sandwich disappeared completely. He wiped off the crumbs on his pants. “And all the coaches. Puddlemere has _the_ best coach this year. Octavius Oberdink has got all the right connections. He has experts from all parts of the world working for him. Merlin, it was thrilling to meet them all last night…”  
  


“All of them? They were all there?” Hermione asked. Her wand set off a small spark as she tapped it too hard against the side of her leg. She jumped in reaction before safely stowing it away. 

“All of ‘em.” Ron dug around in his pack, and his hand emerged around another sandwich.

“Another one, Ron?” Hermione couldn’t help the small annoyed sigh even as she eyed the breadth of his shoulders. It couldn’t be him—could it? That would just be— _blergh._ Hermione shuddered. They had grown up together; they were almost like _siblings._

No, it couldn't have been him. She would have known instantly from the back. There would have been freckles galore, and even if Ron had been the type to wear a signet ring, he was the youngest son and wouldn't be handed the family heirloom ring. Not to mention the fact that she'd recognise his family crest—if he hadn't picked up a ring from a secondhand shop to make a dubious fashion statement. She surreptitiously checked his fingers, just to be sure. No ring. Whew.

“Do you see how small these are?” Ron asked defensively. He was still talking about the sandwiches.

"I’m pretty sure using an Undetectable Extension charm to secrete more food about your person is _not_ the approved usage of that charm.” Hermione eyed the sprinkle of freckles on his knuckles and let out a small sigh of relief. No, it definitely wasn’t Ron. Thank goodness. One down, twenty to go.  
  


“Oh yeah?” Ron said, unwrapping his second? third? sandwich. “Well, if you had managed to bring more food during our seventh year, maybe we wouldn’t have been so miserable.”

“Alright, whatever,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “So, only Puddlemere and the Harpies and the staff were there last night?”

Ron gazed at her through narrowed eyes, the sandwich immobile in his large hand. “You’re strangely curious about Quidditch for the first time in your life.”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed like a fish before she said, “I am not!”

“I knew it,” Ron said, taking a giant bite and chewing as though he had a personal grudge against ham. He jabbed a forefinger in her direction. “Who’s the bloke? Tell me, Hermione!”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione backed away slowly. Honestly, this conversation wasn’t turning out right at all. Ron _knew._ She definitely did _not_ have that sort of relationship with Ron to hold conversation about each other’s sexual exploits. Furthermore, if _she_ knew the answer, she wouldn’t have to question Ron like this.

“You’re obviously trying to get someone in Chudley Cannons sacked! You’ve never been curious about Quidditch your whole life!”

Hermione stared at Ron, mouth agape as his question completely threw her for a loop. “Wait, you think I’m trying to sabotage Quidditch? Why would I be trying to get someone from the Chudley team sacked? They weren’t even there last night.”

Ron glared at her as he vanished the wrappers of his sandwiches. There was a bit of mayonnaise on his upper lip. “‘Course they were. They’re my favourite team. That’s why I was there!”

* * *

Well, now that the roster for the “private” mixer last night had expanded to _three_ Quidditch teams, Hermione retreated to the bookstore, where she headed straight to the Sporting section. She located the most recent magazine on English teams and opened it. It was a pity she hadn’t stayed to get any more information other than that quick peek at the ring. 

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. She should have done a lot of things, starting with _not drinking unknown drinks_ _last night._ She should have stayed to investigate that bizarrely empty flat this morning, but she had wanted to leave immediately, like an ostrich seeking to hide its head from the truth. She was also mixing her metaphors, but that was just what happened when one started to peruse Quidditch magazines.

She started to flip impatiently through the pages of the magazine, glancing once in admiration at a flying Ginny. Without quite knowing why she did so, she stopped at the page featuring Oliver Wood and stared fixedly at his picture. Then her attention was grabbed by the opposite spread, a full-page picture of a smirking Cormac McLaggen, dodging a bludger effortlessly while knocking a ball— _quaffle—_ out of the way of a hoop.

She tried to be as neutral as possible as she squinted her eyes and compared their relative builds. Obviously, Cormac was nearly a full handbreadth wider about the shoulders than Oliver. He was a little bit taller as well. Did _he_ wear a signet ring? Somehow she thought he was the type to do so, but she couldn’t remember. 

It couldn’t be him, could it? 

When it came down to the two of them, Hermione thought that the likelihood of it being Cormac was _slightly_ higher than Oliver, who she was certain was only interested in Quidditch balls…or other types of balls that usually didn’t see the light of day. And had she even talked to Cormac last night? Or maybe it was someone else? 

Hermione groaned deep in her throat and flipped another page with uncustomary force. She was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost jumped out of her skin when a hand tapped her on her shoulder. She uttered a quickly muffled shriek before she saw Harry’s smiling face. Her reflexive smile faltered when he glanced down and blinked at her chosen reading material of the day. She slammed the pages of the magazine together and cleared her throat. 

“Quidditch?” Harry sounded uncertain. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and raised his eyebrows at her. “You, Hermione? That’s a first.”

“I’m—er, investigating someone,” Hermione said. It was the first explanation that popped into her head.

“Oh?” Harry sounded curious and also suspicious. “Why don’t I know about this?”

“It’s—er, very hush-hush,” she said, fumbling to reshelf the magazine. It wouldn’t cooperate and kept sliding off again. The front of the magazine flashed the words “Britain’s Fittest Quidditch Players—More Inside!” in bright gold letters. Hermione tried to hide the picture of a grinning and topless Marcus Flint with her body. It wasn't working, and now Harry looked even more suspicious. In her opinion, he really should have been more suspicious about the need to play Quidditch without a shirt, six-pack notwithstanding.

“Is it about the mixer last night?”

Hermione took the magazine back down and tucked it under an arm, clearing her throat again before Harry’s question sank in. “Wait, what? You know something about that?”

“Well, of course.” Harry rocked back on his heels, the frown of perplexity replaced by his normal insouciance when talking about the foibles of everyday occurrences. “The place was double-booked last night, and the teams got into a hexing fight over it. It appears that the manager isn’t a Quidditch fan, and so he had no idea that he was speaking to _four_ different teams.”

“Four,” Hermione repeated. Her knees felt all of a sudden too wobbly to support her weight. The magazine cover mocked her again. Britain’s fittest Quidditch players indeed—it could be any one of them. _Why_ had she assumed that it would only be the two people she knew from school?

“Harpies, Cannons, United, and er—Falcons.” Harry rattled off the names with ease while Hermione wanted to grab a quill and take notes. 

“How was the place able to hold everyone?” Hermione asked. She was also wondering how out of it she had been. Why didn’t she remember a fight over the premises?

“Undetectable Extension Charm. That’s why Aurors were called in.”

“I just thought Ginny invited Ron,” Hermione said. “Did you see me there?”

Harry frowned at her question. “I waved at you when I came in with the others, Hermione. Don’t you remember?”

“Er, no?” Even to her own ears, she sounded unconvincing.

Harry grinned. “You looked like you were having a lot of fun.”

“What does that mean?” Hermione said, jumping to attention and swiping at his robe lapel. “Harry, what do you mean?”

Harry darted out of her reach. “I mean, you need to loosen up like yesterday. Have more fun. Maybe you’ll find that Quidditch players are your thing.”

“What?” she screeched before she realised that a few heads were bobbing curiously in their direction. She lowered her voice and leaned into Harry. “Harry Potter, what are you talking about? Did you—see me with someone yesterday? If so, tell me!”

Still grinning, he fended off her grabby hands. “Why, weren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Maybe I wasn’t!”

Instantly his smile slipped and his face turned serious. “Oh? Did someone slip something into your drink?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Of _course_. No wonder she had been so out of it! That should have been the first thing she checked for!

“Gotta go, Harry; see you later!”

“Wait—” Harry was talking to thin air as Hermione pushed the magazine into his chest and ran out of the store.

* * *

“So, you can’t detect any substances in my system?”

“Nothing except an exceptional amount of alcohol,” the Healer said. “Would you like to siphon it from your system?”

Now that she was in the relative calm and quiet of St Mungo's sitting in front of the calm demeanor of her former Housemate, Hermione felt silly. She was almost completely certain she hadn't been potioned yesterday. It was only that Harry reminded her that she needed to check for—ahem—other possibilities. “Just between us,” she said before she coughed into one fist. “Er, can you close the curtains?”

Angelina Johnson raised her eyebrows and moved to comply before standing in front of Hermione with her wand out. “What’s going on, Hermione?”

“So, I—basically, I might have gotten up to a few—hijinks last night. And I need to make sure that there are no consequences.” Hermione looked expectantly at Angelina.

The Healer cocked her head to the side, and her eyes slowly began to narrow. “Hermione, are you telling me…”

Hermione gulped at the censure in Angelina’s eyes, her fingers tapping a rapid tattoo on the cool pleathery surface of the hospital cot. “Er, well, there’s a possibility, that’s all.”

“Hermione! You should have gone to the Aurors immediately! If someone cast a Compelling Charm on you to force you to drink that many shots in order to—I don’t know, get you to research something for them, then you need to report this to _them_. Just because there aren't any potions in your system does _not_ mean that there aren't other spells at work. I’ll fill out a report, and you can take my findings to them. Hold for a moment—”

“Wait, what?” Hermione frowned in confusion at the turn in the conversation. “Er, well, I don’t think anyone cast a Compelling Charm on me to drink—”

“They must have,” Angelina said. “I remember George saying that you never drink.”

“Of course I don’t drink anything George gives me!” Hermione said. “I even told him I was allergic just to avoid being in the situation. But I’m fairly sure that didn’t happen last night.” She had remembered, as a matter of fact, that most of the brew that came her way had passed through Ginny’s hands first. The only spell that had been at work last night had been the overpowering sensation of peer pressure, which, sadly, was no defense for anything.

“If you’re sure,” Angelina said, still looking concerned. “You don’t have anything that’s showing up on diagnostic, but perhaps we can take you in to the other room? We can give you the Vat of Visibility, and then we can take a look at your insides. It’ll take at least five hours though.”

Hermione shuddered with remembrance. “No, thanks. I’ve had the Vat before and—no. Thank you.” 

“Oh, you must have been part of the mixer last night! The one that happened at Glenavon’s. Was it fun at least?”

“I have no idea,” Hermione said automatically.

“Well, you’re all good to go, unless you’d like to lie down for a bit.” Angelina smiled sympathetically at her. “We’ve had a few players come in from the brawling in far worse condition than you.”

Hermione nodded. No signs of force. No strange substances in her system. Nothing other than a higher than normal amount of alcohol. A night of mutual pleasure then, with—well, whomever it had been. “You have players here from Glenavon’s? Were they brought in this morning or last night?”

“Last night.”

Hermione tucked a flyaway curl behind her ear as casually as she could. “Hmm, anyone I know? How many of them?” She gave a short laugh that sounded stilted even to her own ears. “I mean, I’m just curious because I was there last night.”

“Er—seven players, I think,” Angelina said. She shook her head. “More brawn than brain, from what I know of them.”

“Right. From—the Falcons? Or Puddlemere?” Hermione coughed as something lodged in her throat at the same time as the question.

Angelina walked forward to rub Hermione on the back in a wide, soothing circle until Hermione nodded. “Two from the Cannons. Two from Puddlemere, and of course three from the Falcons. Idiots, the lot of them.”

“Was—er—” Hermione fumbled for a name, any name. “Christopher, er—”

“Oh, Christopher Hanover,” Angelina finished, to Hermione’s relief. She grinned toothily at Hermione. “He’s fit, isn’t he?”

Hermione had no idea who that was, but she smiled weakly in response. 

“No, he wasn’t one of the idiots.” Angelina turned her back on Hermione to let her swing her legs down from the bed. “All set?”

“Er, how about Cormac McLaggen?” Hermione didn’t know why that was the first name to pop into her brain.

Angelina raised her eyebrows and paused for a moment. “McLaggen?” she asked in the same tone as one would use to ask about a mold infection. “You’re asking about...McLaggen?” There was a peculiar expression on her face that made Hermione want to backpedal desperately.

Hermione shrugged, her face feeling hotter than when she had been sunburnt. It didn’t help that Angelina was still waiting for her response. “I thought I saw him yesterday.”

“Ah. Er, no, he hasn’t come in.” Like a seasoned Quidditch fan, Angelina quickly rattled off a list of the players’ names. 

Hermione was so anxious that she missed the first two names entirely. Damn. She’d need to go into the Ministry to use the Pensieve. She smiled weakly and hesitantly raised her fist to make an awkward pump in the air. “Just looking out for my Housemates.” _Smooth, Hermione_.

Angelina gave her another peculiar look but mercifully decided to act as though Hermione had said nothing. “You know, it’s funny. With that much alcohol in your system, you should be feeling like the underside of a shoe. Did you have any Sober-Up?”

“I had a bit this morning, but I didn't too terrible other than a terribly dry mouth."

"Perhaps you had some last night?"

Hermione frowned. All her expertise as to Sober-Up were generally in his chemical makeup and whether the inventor had kept the recipe secret enough to qualify for protection. "I'm curious though. If I had Sober-Up to counteract the drinking, wouldn't my alcohol level go down?"

“Well, some say the alcohol stays in your body, but you just don’t feel its effects because of the Sober-Up.” Angelina shrugged when Hermione still looked quizzical. "It's herbal."

* * *

An hour later, Hermione thought that all the notices about alcohol being bad for your body must be true. It must be dimming her intelligence quotient as she breathed, since she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to figure out who was her mysterious one-night stand without directly asking random party-goers from the night before and sending everyone on a fact-finding mission that would end up on the front page of the _Prophet_ , gossip-ridden rag that it was.

Now that she thought of it, she couldn’t remember if Oliver Wood had been wearing a signet ring or not, probably because his hand had whisked too swiftly through the air while he had been miming notorious Quidditch plays through the years, but she thought he wouldn’t be the kind to wear one. She could just imagine him saying, “Any excess jewelry would weigh you down while you’re in the air. Drag, you understand. _Drag_.”

Who else had she spoken to? Hermione shook her head in irritation. Nope. Still nothing.

Ergo: After a full morning’s runaround, she had only ruled out a grand total of seven people. And there had been four teams there with managerial staff. It was like a sexy game of Not It, except _not_.

So now because she was trying to be certain beyond a reasonable doubt, she was going to use the Unspeakables’ Pensieve on the weekend. All because of _Quidditch_. If she had disliked the sport before, now she was starting to hate it with a burning passion. 

Above it all, why couldn’t she be a normal girl and just brush off what happened the night before? No, she was obsessive and she just had to know who might be coming after her to blackmail her. 

As she was heading into the bowels of the Ministry, Hermione heard the tap-tap-tap of the steady tread of shoes on the tile and shrank into the wall to hide from any passerby. She felt silly when the footsteps changed in rhythm, and, not one second later, a blond figure turned the corner and stopped. 

Pointy features squinted at her, hands were tucked into pockets, and an irritating smirk slowly curled up his thin lips. “Granger, what are you doing lurking in the shadows of the Ministry on the weekend?”

Hermione straightened from where she had been hugging the wall. “I might ask _you_ the same thing, Malfoy,” she said. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. To think she had been afraid of running into someone respectable and esteemed. It was, instead, only Malfoy. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion on him. “And what _are_ you doing here, Malfoy, instead of creeping around in your Manor?”

“I have friends at the Ministry." One pale, long-fingered hand came up to scratch at his chin, and he moved closer to her. “And I had a very interesting evening last night. Outside Glenavon’s.”

Hermione’s eyes stopped short at the signet ring decorating his third finger. No. It couldn’t be. This pointy-faced, poncey layabout? She almost felt the beginnings of a panic attack coming on. 

“I saw you leave the pub with a Quidditch player,” Malfoy continued, making a tsking sound with his tongue. “Wedding bells soon, Granger?”

His words, though inherently annoying just by dint of his inflexion, sent a jolt through her. First, relief—it wasn't Malfoy, thank all the gods of sanity and reason.

Second, _finally_ , she had found the one person who knew exactly who her companion of the night was. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, scrambling for the right words to dig the information out of him. The wrong tactic would send him straight to the gossip grapevine, and that she most certainly did _not_ want. “Why were _you_ outside the pub, Malfoy? Weren’t you invited?”

He brushed imaginary lint off one shoulder. “I was across the street at a far more impressive restaurant. I don’t mingle with the riffraff.”

“Well, why would you say anything about wedding bells?” she asked, throwing caution to the wind. Her hands had found their way to her hips and she had adopted her (as Ron had often informed her) do-not-fuck-with-the-Granger stance.

Malfoy raised wafer-thin eyebrows at her. “Because so many of you Gryffindors end up marrying one another that it’s like a religion.” He smiled at her, a fake smile that didn’t show his teeth. “Do have a good day, won’t you? Even if it proves to be difficult.”

Hermione scowled at his back, the way all their encounters ended. Then his words struck her. _Gryffindor. Gryffindor Quidditch player._

Her heart began to pound.

But which one?

* * *

Because Hermione liked to be thorough, she decided not to rule anyone out. 

As it turned out, Puddlemere, Cannons, and Falcons had a total of fifteen players who belonged in the Gryffindor house. If not for Malfoy’s tip, she would be dealing with the managers and the staff. What a nightmare that would be. Luckily (maybe?) she had fifteen people to decide between, and that was _if_ (and a very big if it was) Malfoy could be trusted to tell the truth.

Three players were recruited in the last year alone, which meant that they were only eighteen— _possibly_ even seventeen. Hermione felt a bit squicked by the thought of that.

Eight players were far older, with the oldest being Ackley Alcott, who was forty-five this year. That also did not make Hermione feel any better about any of it. In fact, Cormac McLaggen and Oliver Wood might be her least worrying choices. Well, aside from the fact that she’d always considered McLaggen oversexed and Wood—er, like a Quidditch monk.

Hermione sat at a corner cafe, gloomily nursing a cup of orange blossom tea. The fact that it had just gone four and she had done precisely none of her weekend chores that were usually scheduled for Saturday showed her precisely how much one mistake could throw off a person’s entire life. 

She had purchased that dratted Quidditch magazine and had quietly listed out all her potential bedmates from the night before. It was just too bad that drunkenness and memory extraction did not mix. Nothing she had seen in the Pensieve had been worth viewing. 

Now she idly flipped through the magazine, hoping that the moving pictures would jog her memory. _Surely_ she should remember talking to this person? If only she could have just directly asked Malfoy who it was without sending his Slytherin antenna quivering for blackmail data. Really, why didn’t _Ginny_ know when and with whom Hermione had left?

She scowled down at her list of fifteen names—she should thank Malfoy she even had that much information, but she wasn’t planning to, thank you very much—and tapped her quill on the parchment.

As she was letting out a sigh loud enough to signal ships to shore, the sound of a chair scraping across the pavement jolted her back to the present. She looked up to find Cormac McLaggen’s broad, tall figure blocking the late afternoon sun.

“Well, going by that scowl, it’s not been a pleasant day for you,” Cormac said before lowering himself into the seat opposite her.

“The seat’s taken, McLaggen,” Hermione said, making no effort to be pleasant. She had apparently been pleasant enough last night. There would be no more pleasantness forthcoming for the next year, which was a conservative estimate at best.

He ignored her, going so far as to place a paper parcel on top of the table, nearly knocking into her cup of tea. 

Hermione glared at it and then at him. “It’s the weekend,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about your endorsement deal and any trademark issues outside of the office.”

“I know,” he said, sitting back in the chair and resting his elbows on the armrests as though he planned to stay there all day. “That’s what you said last night.” Then he smiled at her, cracking a knuckle before bringing his fist to rest under his chin.

Hermione froze at the sight of the ring on his finger. That ring.

_That ring._

It was forever engraved into her head. She could have saved herself a lot of trouble this morning had she carried out her initial idea of researching insignias instead of haphazardly running about like a harried mouse with its tail on fire.

“So,” she said, eyeing him beadily. “It was you.”

There was really nothing else to be said. She must have been drunk off her rocker the night before, but now, seeing him standing in front of her in the flesh, it was all starting to come back to her. 

Cormac McLaggen coming over to have a “friendly” chat with her, beginning with his family’s case with the Sober-Up. He had even blabbered a few words about how their misbegotten “date” to Slughorn’s Christmas party had been a complete wash because he had been a giant git. Let bygones be bygones? he had asked with a not un-charming air. At the time, Hermione had been filled with understanding—who in their adolescence hadn’t been a complete git at some point? It had also been a slightly more interesting conversation than talking endless Quidditch plays. 

Now she was beginning to realise that conversation was the precursor of all her current woes.

He chuckled a bit, as though to himself. “You were in a fairly bad state.”

That made her cross her arms over her chest. “Sufficient cause for taking me home and having your way with a drunk woman?” Sarcasm tinged her words.

It seemed to seep through to him as well. Cormac looked up at her, a frown etched between his brows. “I beg your pardon? Your clothes were soaked. I considered it my gentlemanly duty to a former Housemate.”

“Soaked?” Hermione didn’t remember this.

“A prank by someone from the Falcons—apparently someone thought it was amusing to cast a wet t-shirt hex. It started off a fight. I asked if you wanted to go home for a change of clothes, and you said ‘ _only if it comes with_ Sober-up _,’_ and so…” He gestured to the parcel on the table. “Your clothes. Freshly de-spelled. I’ve been trying to track you down all morning.”

Hermione stared at him for a solid minute before crossing her arms defensively over her chest. “Just a minute. The case of Sober-Up in my home. Was that from you?"

His only response to that was another cheeky lift of his brows.

"Why would I go with you?” Hermione asked, forgetting decorum and simply thinking aloud.

“I’ve no idea,” he said and flashed her a grin that creased two identical dents into either side of his cheeks. “Perhaps you found me charming?”

“I was in _bed_ with you.” She hadn’t stopped giving him the evil-eye.

“Well, it appears that drunk Hermione is a rather uninhibited one,” he said. “I had the devil of a time fighting you off.” He seemed to be smiling at a remembered incident, and his hand came up to scratch at one side of his jaw. “Boxed me once, too, but you finally fell asleep after tearing all your clothes off first.” He shrugged. “I should have taken the sofa but it’s much too small for me.” At her narrowed look, he lifted up a hand. “I kept my trousers on, promise.”

Her expression must have communicated her disbelief, because he leaned over and rested his forearms on the tabletop. “Look, I meant what I said about Slughorn’s party. I fancied you at the time, and I came on a bit strong. I apologised for it last night, but it’s possible you don’t even remember. So I’m saying it again for the record.”

When he didn’t do any more than that, she nodded slowly. He seemed to take that as acquiescence, and he stood, his chair scraping the concrete again. “Well, I’ll see you around then.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, her mouth dry. If, as he said, he had behaved with the soul of integrity, then she had rushed about the city like a madwoman for nothing, thinking the worst had happened. Even Angelina hadn't picked up on any naughty tells if she had indeed been romping around. 

Hermione also reflected that Luna, who was quite an astute judge of character for all her seemingly kooky ways, had said that Cormac McLaggen was nice but socially awkward. How embarrassing, except that this was actually the best news she had had all morning. It would also teach her not to jump to ridiculous conclusions in the future. Honestly.

She gazed up at him, eyes beseeching and a wry smile lifting one corner of her lips. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been properly grateful. It’s been a horrid morning. Er, buy you a cuppa?”

For a moment he stood there, unmoving, and then he smiled. “I’d like that.”


End file.
